


The rivers are overflowing

by captainhurricane (orphan_account)



Series: are we not made in His image? [1]
Category: Hannibal - Fandom
Genre: Stream of Consciousness, once again sigh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:33:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Will dreams, because reality is dim and dark and filled with cold colours and the devil behind Hannibal Lecter's smile is creeping closer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The rivers are overflowing

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by Kaiseki.

-it should scare him, the easiness with which he dives into his own mind; into the image of a river and himself fishing, the smell of leaves and water in his clothes. (the stag of raven feathers and its footsteps haunting him even in here, especially in here and he sighs, inside and outside, peace broken and is it not the truth that Will Graham has not known peace for a very long time) and it doesn’t because what does he need fear for anymore? when chilton looks at him with barely concealed distaste and the sadistic drizzle of his words seeps through Will’s mind and interrupt the sound of the river and the fishes swimming beneath the surface, the steady clonk, clonk, clonk of the stag’s hooves.

and the river and the stag of raven feathers is nothing more than his mind telling him things again, some things that are clearer now

he should have seen it instantly, that there is no friend or a companion to be found in the smooth drawl of an accented voice, the humanity in Hannibal Lecter just a clever cloak. There are moments when Will Graham gets so furious but those moments are reserved only for when he is alone and he can clutch the bars of his tiny cell and try to remember how to breathe, when he just closes his eyes and finds the river again, the fishes and the serenity of early autumn air, keeping out the lurking stag (and the man-monster we do not speak of). Will curls up in the hard prison bed and puts his mind in order.

x

it takes much of Hannibal to prevent himself from smiling. Yet is it not amusing to watch them scurrying around, tip-toeing around him and not knowing a true monster from a confused man? Hannibal watches, Hannibal waits. 

Will stands on the other side of the bars, wide-eyed and shivering but he’s looking straight at Hannibal, in a way he never did before and he’s speaking and Hannibal, oh, what’s left of the beast-man’s heart swells, his own darkness threatens to seep out from between his lips. He wants to reach out and touch the shivering hands, the cheek and its dark stubble. He wonders if Will might bite his hand. 

Hannibal pulls on his masks, one by one and lets his smile break out once there is meat under his fingers and Will’s trembling, determined words come to his dreamless dreams, the ones echoing with the sound of an heartbeat. And Hannibal knows it’s Will’s because Will’s heart is precious to him, the tendrils of Hannibal’s own inner chill curled around it and making it his own. 

x

the memories are like secrets, blackened, charred bones hidden inside deadlocked cupboards and Will wants them, Will scratches at the doors of the cupboards and screams for them to open- (he remembers Abigail’s wide, fearful eyes and the awful feeling of gagging and the knowledge that his hands, these hands were the reason she-) but the antlers on the doors stab his hands and they bleed and somewhere, just close enough, Hannibal touches him and it feels a little like death.


End file.
